


The Player Clowns

by a_t_rain



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_t_rain/pseuds/a_t_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After <i>The Mousetrap</i>, Claudius tosses the players into prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Player Clowns

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually do dark and gloomy, so I'm not sure where this came from. For a far, _far_ more cheerful take on the same general concept, see angevin2's [The Late Innovation; Or, Forty Times in Open Streets and Houses](http://devisewit.livejournal.com/2407.html)

It was not until Henrik died, of a slight cough that turned into a three-days’ fever and, on the fourth morning, into a delirium, that Sebastian and the boy began to be very frightened.

They had gone into prison meekly, confident that the king’s wrath would abate within a few days, or, if it did not, that the prince would vouch for them and secure their release. Were they not the principal tragedians of the city, and more than that, Prince Hamlet’s Men? And had they not played _The Murder of Gonzago_ upon an express order from the prince, who had always shown himself to be a fair and generous patron?

When the jailer informed them that the prince was stark mad and had been sent into England to recover his wits, Sebastian felt his spirits sink a little. Nevertheless, he placed his trust in his sure knowledge of their innocence. They had played _Gonzago_ a hundred times in the city, always to great applause, and it had not occurred to him that there was anything in the play that might give offense. And Lord Polonius had approved it all, except for the brief scene Prince Hamlet had insisted on writing for Henrik – but what harm could there be in that? Sebastian had thought writing for the stage only a passing fancy of the prince’s; everyone knew that Hamlet had literary ambitions, and it was the players’ job to gratify their patron.

It seemed now there was more in it. But if Sebastian had not seen any danger in the prince’s request, with all his years as the head of the company, still less could Henrik and young Tobias have been expected to foresee that Gonzago’s death might mean their own.

The days passed, and still the players were not brought to trial. Then Henrik died – still wrapped in the inky cloak he had worn as Lucianus the poisoner, his face dead white in the half-darkness of their cell. Tobias also looked very white now, and Sebastian began to have nightmares of being buried alive.

Evidently, King Claudius did not intend to put them on trial. Sebastian guessed that the king intended to let the cold and the damp and the meager rations to do the hangman’s work for him, and a glance at the boy told him that it might not take long.

He seized his chance one night when the jailer turned his back before locking the cell. He had enacted many scenes of death, and he knew where to place his hands to strangle a man. He had not known how desperately the jailer’s hands would grip his arms, trying to force them apart, or how long it would take him to lose consciousness. Perhaps he was not dead. In his fevered imagination Sebastian pictured him rising up to bow to the audience and dance a jig. They could not stay to see what would become of him.

“Come,” he said to Tobias, and the boy followed.

He was not such a boy, any more; Sebastian’s first impression, when they stood outside in the moonlight, was that Tobias had grown, although it was surely impossible that anyone could grow on eight ounces of bread a day. He was still dressed as Queen Baptista, which was absurd.

“Off with these borrowed weeds,” said Sebastian, trying to sound as if he had a plan. “We’ll find better ones.”

“Where?” asked Tobias.

A few smocks fluttered from a clothesline beside a poor man’s cottage, looking like ghosts. “These will do.”

They left their royal robes behind, by way of exchange. Sebastian thought vaguely of one of his grandmother’s stories, something about a peasant girl who had woken one day to find her rags changed for a gown of damask and velvet. He shook himself. This was not a time for fancy.

“Where will we go?” Tobias asked.

Where, indeed. Their disappearance might go unnoticed until morning, perhaps, if the jailer was dead; after that the hue and cry would go up. Sebastian began to walk briskly toward a church; he had a dim idea that one took sanctuary in churches.

“What shall we _do?_ ” He caught a note of panic in Tobias’s voice.

“Peace, boy. Thou’lt rouse the watch.” They were almost at the churchyard. Sebastian halted suddenly; some careless gravedigger had left his tools scattered on the grass. “We’ll make shift. Are we not players? Can we not change ourselves?”

He handed a shovel to the uncomprehending boy, and began to sing under his breath.

_A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,_  
For and a shrouding sheet;  
O, a pit of clay for to be made  
For such a guest is meet... 

He had always wanted to play the clown.


End file.
